


LAX To O'Hare

by Bold_Cherry



Category: Bandon, Brallon - Fandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_Cherry/pseuds/Bold_Cherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CAN I GET A HELL YEAH FOR PROCRASTINATION</p>
    </blockquote>





	LAX To O'Hare

**Author's Note:**

> CAN I GET A HELL YEAH FOR PROCRASTINATION

Honestly, I already noticed him standing in line at the gate. He was taller than everyone else, so it was kind of impossible not to. He was very pretty too. Or wait, no, pretty is the wrong way to describe him. Not that men can’t be pretty, but like, pretty is what you would call someone like, I don’t know, my friend William, maybe. Guys with light, feminine features, you know, the lanky, skinny ones with bedroom-eyes, the ones that are inclined to wear make up at a party.  
 _He_ is not like that, oh no. This guy, this _man_ , is flat out hot. Tall, with broad shoulders and upperarms that stretches the material of the sleeves on his button-down shirt. A square jaw with light stubble, and sort of shaggy-but-not-long-just-under-the-ears, dark, messy hair. Basically, he’s pretty much perfect in his light blue shirt, white t-shirt and dark jeans, and my mouth goes dry and I look away quickly when he catches me staring and sends a tiny, lopsided smile in my direction because _wow_ , add Eyes That Stare Straight Through Your Soul to the list. I can’t tell the color from this distance, but I just know what they’ll be like.

 

Someone up there must really love me, because when we board the plane and I take my seat by the window, only a couple of minutes pass before Hot Dude sits right next to me, flashes a quick, small smile of recognition and busies himself with the seat belt. I try to concentrate on _breathing_ because when we’re squeezed this closely together, our arms sort of touch, and he just radiates heat. Suddenly, the four-hour planeride to Chicago seems very long, and not at all long enough at the same time. On one hand, I don’t ever want to move, because he’s warm and if I lean my head a little to the right, I can smell his cologne. On the other hand, I feel like I’m going to die, because that tiny little spot where our skin is touching, is sending tingles and sparks through my entire body, and I don’t think I can stand that for four hours.

 

I can hear the doors close, and the crew members comes into the aisle, starting their usual demonstration of put-on-a-yellow-vest-if-we-land-on-water-and-pray-to-god-we-won’t-be-the-next-titanic. I’ve seen this about five-hundred times by now and can’t really be bothered to pay attention. Nothing ever happens anyway. What I do pay attention to, though, is that Hot Dude next to me is watching closely, looking like he’s mentally writing down every single move the stewardesse makes and every word the voice says. I frown a little, because I’ve never seen anyone pay genuine attention to the safety-demonstrations. It’s probably just out of politeness, I bet he’s super polite. He looks the type.

 

The demonstration ends with the usual, monotone, “We hope you have a nice flight!”, and the plane starts wheeling off towards whatever lane they’ve been assigned. This usually takes ages, always some kind of excuse about another plane having to land or take off first or whatever. I look down at Hot Dude’s hand, and notice that he’s gripping the armrest so tightly, his knuckles are going white. I look over at his other hand, and to my surprise, he’s clinging to that armrest too, like it was his lifesupport or something. I shift my gaze up, and see that he’s biting his lower lip hard, his eyebrows are scrunched together a little, and he has a deep worry-line in his forehead. His eyes, which I can now tell it some sort of blue, looks shiny and wet, like he’s about to cry and,  
“Are you okay?” I ask, not even having to fake concert. The guy looks _terrified_.  
He looks up at me, startled and apparently takes a few seconds to realize I am talking to him. He nods quickly, blinks a few times, then releases his lips and rushes out,  
“Yeah, yeah, sure, fine, I’m great.”  
It takes all of my willpower to not melt at his voice, but I manage it, and even have the energy to cock and eyebrow and say,  
“You sure? You look petrified, honestly.”  
He clears his throat and lets go of the armrests, only to put his hands in his lap and fiddle them together.  
“I guess I, uh,” he mumbles “I’m a little afraid of flying?”  
It obviously wasn’t meant as a question, but it comes out as that with the way he looks up at me, nervous and asking, like he’s expecting me to laugh, but wishes I wouldn’t. I don’t.  
“Oh,” I breathe “I see.”  
He adverts his eyes, staring at his hands twisting together in his lap.  
“I know it’s dumb but,” he sighs and drops his head back on the headrest “I can’t really help it.”  
“It’s not dumb,” I shrug “It’s understandable, I guess.”  
He straightens up and looks at me, a little hope and light in his eyes now. Eyes that are dark blue with a drop of something green in them, I can see now.  
“Yeah?” “Yeah,” I give him my best reassuring smile “But don’t worry, I’m right here.” I joke, winking at him. He lets out a nervous chuckle and looks down again. I’m pretty sure I can see a tiny blush on his cheeks, and it makes me a little bolder than I probably should be, so I reach over and grab his left hand in my right, giving a friendly squeeze, as the plane comes to a stop and the motors starts whirring, gathering power for take off. He doesn’t say anything, just looks a little startled for a moment, then squeezes back.

“What’s your name?” I ask, when the plane sets off at a much higher speed, and I can feel him tense up where our arms and hands are touching. He breathes hard, scrunches his eyes shut and doesn’t answer. I squeeze his hand a little harder.  
“Hey,” I say, as the asphalt and grass rushes by “What’s your name?”  
“Dallon.” he chokes out, the makes a high-pitched noise as the wheels off the plane lets go of the lane and the plane starts moving into an almost 90 degree angle. I squeeze his hand tight and intertwine our fingers, doing my best to comfort him. He’s white as a sheet and looks like he’ll stop breathing at any time now.  
“Hi Dallon,” I say, trying to make him think about something else “I’m Brendon.”  
He nods, but doesn’t open his eyes. His breathing doesn’t even out either. I let out some air, and bring my free hand up to his right cheek, adding a little pressure to make him turn his head towards me.  
“Hey, look at me.”  
No reaction.  
“Dallon,” I tap his skin with my index finger “Look at me, come on.”  
He finally lets out the breath he’s been holding and forces his eyes open. I’m a little overwhelmed by his clear, honest eyes, and how full of absolute terror they are.  
“It’s okay,” I smile, stroking his cheek softly and giving his hand another squeeze “I’m right here.”  
He closes his eyes again, but softer this time, and slowly nods. I don’t actually know what’s making me touch and comfort a guy I don’t know the lastname of, but I guess it’s just, like, regular compassion. Or I really wouldn’t ever be able to sit here and watch the prettiest guy on the planet be scared out of his mind for four hours. And yes, when he’s this close and has that sad look on his face, he is pretty. I guess that just makes him ten times hotter, really.

 

He calmes down after half an hour or so, and I do my best to keep up a conversation to distract him from going back into full-on anxiety. It proves rather easy. He’s definitely one of the most easy-going people I’ve ever met, and when he tells me he’s going to Chicago because there’s an agency who maybe, maybe, _maybe_ wants to sign his band, I, of course, decide to never ever let this guy out of my sight because seriously. Extremely hot from a distance, incredibly pretty up close, smart and funny, AND musical talent? Is that even legal?  
There’s a small blush on his cheeks (add ‘adorable’ to that list) when he shyly asks if I, maybe, want to hang out sometime while in Chicago,  
“You know, if you want to, I mean..” he rushes out after asking, as if for some kind of apology for even asking such a question.  
“I’d love to.” I grin.

 

It’s not untill we’ve landed and have to get up to exit the plane that I realize he didn’t let go of my hand even once during the entire ride.


End file.
